


Primitive

by nicasio_silang



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-09
Updated: 2012-05-09
Packaged: 2017-11-05 01:07:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/400772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicasio_silang/pseuds/nicasio_silang
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the blindfold_spn prompt <i>Dean/Cas - true form. Dean likes the Ox face best. It has a very long tongue.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Primitive

Dean tries to remember that it’s only a dream.

This hot breath fogging the air, this nose like a fist. This slack mouth, these patient eyes, this bearded chin, damp with the dew of the tall grass. This familiar beast pressing its wide, haired cheek tight to his bare cheek. The liminal space that stretches out like a horizon, the in-between where this face ends and the others begin. This featureless place that could be a dark, empty room, or a dark, quiet field, or nothing at all. This face that is a body that ends somewhere he can’t see. That’s nothing if not a dream.

It’s ponderous. He doesn’t know if that’s because it’s ponderous, or because he needs it to be. It’s solicitous. It ducks its long face under Dean’s chin and around, brushes its wet snout against the shell of his ear.

“This is a little nuts,” Dean says.

Then he remembers his hands. His fingers slide on the softest hairs behind its ears. He traces a bony curve up to the thick, bare thrust of a horn. He can’t reach its point even with his arm outstretched. Smooth polished bone, the trunk of a birch, a pillar of marble. It tilts its head and presses into his hand.

“Cas,” Dean says, and its heavy eyelashes lift for him. Its naked eye is steady, unselfconscious. “Can I-”

It opens its mouth. Dean breathes in. He leans his nose into the space between its eyes and rests there. It smells like a wheatgrass morning, dead center of Kansas, dust and dry sunlight on the dry hide of an animal. Good country air and June at daybreak. Warm bread held in the lap of an apron. Dean cups the curve of its lip and runs his thumb along the staggered edge of its front teeth.

Dean steps into it. It’s breathing hot and hard huffs right up against his stomach. Its mouth opens more, he let his whole hand slide in. It’s so warm, it’s so unbelievably warm. The tongue rises to find him, to bring him deeper. It’s thick, it’s downright massive, and it feels... Well, isn’t this a thought he’ll never repeat to anyone, but it feels like the firm, hot root of a hard human dick.

So it’s only natural to hold on as it moves. The very tip of it sneaking out to press wetly at the front of his shirt, at the indentation of his belly button.

There came a point, months ago, when Dean accepted that he’s constantly doing the weirdest thing he’s ever done. With that in mind, he cups its jaw in his free hand, just for a place to hold, and slides to his knees. Lets the tongue of it journey up his chest, his shoulder, his neck, until he’s paused, rocked back, facing it from below.

On his knees, he’s a supplicant. The lines of its horns curve up and out, elongated by his point of view like branches, like arms reaching, circling over his head. It bows, and Dean leans. He mouths just barely, just touching the side of its lip. It makes a low, low down noise, and then it turns, it turns away.

He hears it first, and he’s gotta chuckle, just this side of hysterical.

“You’re,” he says, “Christ, you’re purring.”

Teardrop eyes, wire-thick whiskers, black lips panting open. It licks them. Eyes shot through with gold and pride. There’s no mane; this one's female.

“And isn’t that interesting,” Dean says, but he doesn’t waste any more time. There are shoulders within reach, sandy-furred and jutting. He reaches out to take one in each hand, and gets right up in that hungry face. The circles of its ears tilt towards him.

There are jowls, there are jaws, there are three-inch-long teeth. The moment that those give him pause, the lioness leans forward and kisses him. It’s all whiskers and ardor. It’s furry on his mouth, and smells oddly of saltwater. It laps at him and Dean feels small and strange under that wide, rough tongue. It moves from his mouth and licks long scratchy strokes at the curve of his neck.

The purring has changed to something he can barely hear, and it’s cycling like an engine around the hollow of its mouth, rushing out onto Dean’s skin. He holds on, but it hurts. A tongue that flays meat off bones is asking to get under his shirt. Its snout is too big to snuffle beneath his collar, so Dean says _okay, okay_ , and pulls off his t-shirt.

It doesn’t pause and he has to fall back, bend over backwards and hold himself up with his hands, chest jumping with his breathing. It presses its cool pink nose against his ribs. This place that isn’t anywhere is getting warm. Sweat slips down his stomach. It laves at the trail from the bottom of his belly, past his navel, skimming sideways to rasp over a nipple. Dean grits his teeth. His hips stutter in the air.

He says, “Cas,” again because what the hell else is there to say.

Dean leans to one side, reaches a hand out to get his fingers in the scruff of its neck. He falls again, onto his elbow, and drags it down with him. Some obscure body leans over him, hot, heavy, a presence. The lioness takes his entire shoulder in its mouth. The smooth side of a tooth draws a line right across the scar tissue on his upper arm and Dean lets out an animal noise, it just cracks out of his throat. The lioness squeezes and he’s just gotta get one, two fingers slipped into the corner of that snarling mouth.

It’s latched on and he’s done for, uselessly pumping his hips against the insubstantial amalgam above him. It’s turning, it’s turning away. Dean’s pretty sure he’s mewling like a kitten. He reaches down and undoes the button fly of his jeans. Everything goes low and tight. For just a moment there is something else facing him while he’s still got his fingers pushed wet into the big cat’s mouth.

And then he’s--

And then there’s something perched on his knee.

It’s the smallest of them, but the fist thought to cross Dean’s mind is that it’s so _big_. It ducks its raptor head at him and light from nowhere reflects on a beak that could slice his hand off. Talons are digging into the flesh around his knee, his thigh too, and every spot sends a spark of _right now_ to his dick.

The yes/no decision engine in his brain has got to be broken. There’s something here more threatening than the lioness, further from human than the ox. And yet it’s a gaze he knows. Urgent, focused. It’s waiting for him to catch up.

It walks down his body like knives to stand half on his belly, half in the divot of his restless hip. Dean’s been waiting this whole time to look into blue eyes, but these looking at him are like the dull face of gunmetal. Dean edges a hand to the waistband of his boxers, a hand to the long feathers at the edge of its wing.

“I,” he chokes on it. “Cas, I want to...”

He wraps one hand finally, fucking finally around his dick, tugging it free squeezing so hard that his entire body shakes. With his other hand he’s finding the feathers beneath that wing. Soft and plenty. Dean starts to jack himself slow. It’s watching him. It tilts its head and he sees for the first time the scythe of its hooked beak. 

“Oh my,” Dean says. “ _Oh._ ”

That’s when a slim, clever tongue worms out and glides through the precome at the head of his cock. Barely there, nothing like enough, and then it’s probing, tonguing at the slit and that elegant head is bobbing, tracing back and forth to that spot under the head, on the underside of his dick where the tickle of it drives him out of his mind. Absurdly, Dean wishes for the ox’s tongue, for the firm, wet length of it. He jacks himself faster, spreads the eagle’s spit down his shaft.

It meets his eye. It’s turning away, and he can’t, _Cas, I can’t_ , he can’t do this, it’s too much, he’s going to remember every minute of this when it’s done and that’s too much. He’s too far gone, the muscles of his abdomen are wailing at him. It’s turning its face away and leaving him alone.

Not alone. It’s the body, it’s the fourth face, they’d talked about this, but that was a long time ago, hours, miles away. It’s the everything, and he can’t see it. It’s dust motes in a shaft of sunlight. It’s a sheen of sweat on a man’s naked back. It’s around him. It’s bracketing his hips and pushing down so precisely right. It’s a strain of familiar music. It’s-

“Oh, you freak,” Dean sobs it out, still clutching his dick and thrusting up into his hand, into the something on top of him. “Oh, that’s my guy.”

It’s the guitar solo from _Call Me The Breeze_.

“Dean,” he hears, finally. It’s in the crook of his arched neck; it’s almost shy. It slips a feeling down his side and cups his ass hard and that’s it, Dean’s coming, biting his lip, seeing stars that might be eyes that might be fire. The music jitters.

His whole body drops down, slack. He can feel Castiel settling above him like a half-heavy cloud, or some sort of body-length origami, folding and unfolding himself piecemeal, rearranging like feathers, twitching like a tail. Strange, stranger than most things, to feel him so unconsciously fidgety. Dean runs his fingers through Cas like running them through stalks of wheat.

He’s debating the right thing to say to ruin the moment. Probably something about threesomes being a real yawner after this. He settles on staying quiet. He catches his breath and wonders if he’s breathing Cas in. The air smells of the earthy hair of an ox. The music has calmed. It’s a cello now, or the tide coming in.


End file.
